Once a Gypsy Read online

  Once a Gypsy

  The Irish Traveller Series - Book One

  Danica Winters

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Danica Winters

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition November 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-306-1

  But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  —William Butler Yeats,

  Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, 1899

  Chapter One

  To most people, the green steel doors of Limerick Prison were just ugly riveted doors, but to Helena O’Driscoll, they represented everything that was wrong with her world. Their chipping paint, the color of sickness, only brought thoughts of a system that imprisoned almost every gypsy man, and often their women.

  A few meters from the doors ran a black wrought iron fence, tall and brooding, tipped with dangerous spikes. The fence’s gate stood firm as Helena pressed her face against it, the cold metal chilling her skin.

  Helena tried to imagine her da coming out of those doors, walking down the steps and through the iron gate that stood guard around the prison. Would he still be the strong, work-hardened man she had known as a child? Or would the time behind bars have changed the man who had been the center of her world?

  A lump caught in her throat. Helena missed him with every ounce of her being. It had been over three hours and yet there was no sign of him. This damn place and those doors were a constant in her life. Almost every Traveller she’d ever known had spent more than their fair share of time in a place like this—away from the world and out of sight of the country folk.

  Her mobile phone buzzed, and she reached down into her fake-diamond-encrusted purse, jamming her fingers on the Post-Leaving Certificate exam textbook she’d brought along to study. Ignoring the pain in her fingers, she opened the mobile and pressed it to her ear. “Aye, Mam,” she said, half breathless from nerves. “How’s the party coming along?”

  “This ain’t Mam. She’s… busy,” her sister replied.

  “What has she gotten herself into now?” Helena tapped the pointed toe of her silver heels against the spiked fence.

  “Well…”

  “Don’t tell me she’s knackered already. I told you to keep her out of the whiskey.”

  “It wasn’t the whiskey. It was ale,” Rionna snapped back in her shrill, over-the-top teenage voice.

  “Whiskey or ale, I told you that ya needed to take care of her.” The cold steel chilled her flesh as she wrapped her fingers around the bars. If Da were around, things would change. Mam would be different. “I shoulda known this is what would be happenin’ when I left you in charge.”

  “You knew as well as I did that she was going to be a right mess today,” Rionna challenged. “You should’ve taken her with ya.”

  Rionna was right, but Helena couldn’t bear the thought of Da’s first sight as a free man being the staggering mess Mam had become—not after everything he’d been through.

  “You need to calm her down before the party tonight. I’m relying on you. Have the guests started to be about?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. If Da doesn’t get out in the next hour, we’ll still have time to call it off.”

  A jingle of metal drew Helena’s attention. An old gypsy woman wheeled a little cart down the sidewalk on the other side of the road. Her leathery skin folded into deep wrinkles that cascaded down her neck and disappeared under the edge of a brown, handcrafted shawl. She looked like the fragile cornhusk doll that Helena had played with as a child, as if one hard jolt would send the woman to pieces. The crone sent a black-toothed smile Helena’s way.

  Turning back to the sight of the green doors, Helena squeezed her eyes closed and prayed Rionna would cooperate with her in handling the twisted wreckage that was Mam. “Look, just make sure all the food is in place and the booze out of Mam’s reach. Can you do that?”

  “I’m not stupid, Helena. I’m not just some child you can be orderin’ round.”

  “I know.” Helena could almost see her sister rolling her eyes. Rionna was far from the type to take orders—even when she had been a wee babe. “I need to get goin’.”

  “Well don’t let me stop ye. I’m sure Da’s chomping at the bit waiting to see his favorite little lass.” The phone line cut off.

  Helena pinched the bridge of her nose as she tried to stave off the beginning of a headache. Some things never changed. Closing the mobile, she stuffed the phone in her purse. The reverberating sound of metal trinkets clinking together echoed toward her as the wool-haired old woman made her way across the street. Helena didn’t have to look closely at the cart to know it jingled with typical Traveller wares—baubles and ornaments and wooden knickknacks—whatever could be made from what others had pitched as trash.

  Hoping that the woman was targeting someone else, Helena nonchalantly checked over her shoulder, but she saw no one. The woman would undoubtedly recognize her as kindred and want to have a wee chat, but Helena cringed at the thought. She didn’t want to have to talk about why her da had been forced to serve time.

  The wheel of the crone’s cart caught on the edge of the sidewalk, and the woman crashed against the buggy, sending her tripping facedown. Glass cat-eye marbles spewed from her pockets as she flailed and tried to stop herself from falling. The marbles rolled wildly in every direction as the woman tumbled to the ground.

  “Oh,” Helena gasped as she rushed to the woman’s side. “Are you okay, my friend?”

  “Oh that damned old bucket o’ mine. Always trippin’ me up… Almost like a bad man. Always underfoot and only a pain in me arse.” The woman gave a wicked, cackling laugh; her breath smelled of onions and vinegar. “Not that you would know about bad men… not a young lass like you, Helena. Aye?”

  Helena dropped the woman’s leathery hand. “What are you talkin’ about? How do you know my name?”

  Her black teeth shone from behind her age-creased lips as she smiled. “I got my ways, lass. ’Tis nothing to be afraid of.”

  Her simple words did nothing to quell the fear that rose within Helena. “You need to answer me. How do ya know my name?”

  The crone wiped the dust from her brown broom skirt. “Now, lass, don’t get upset with me.”

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Ogak Beoir… Make sure to tell yer da ’ello for me.”

  From one of Da’s many fireside tales, Helena recalled him saying there were three stages in the female form: the young maiden, the mother, and the old woman. Ogak Beoir was the Cant word for the last. The crone had to be teasing.

  “Yer puttin’ me on.”

  “Nah, Helena. I’s just like ye, I’s got the gift—the forshaw.” The woman squinted up at her. “But you gots somethin’ more. You gots the touch as well.” Her lips curled into an out-of-place smile.

  Helena thought back to her early childhood when she had gotten lost in one of their camps and found her way to a wise woman’s wagon. Inside the havari were bottles of seeds, drying roses, and, along the top shelf, rows of the most beautiful tea
cups she had ever seen—their edges were painted with gold and the sides with dainty pink roses and blue cornflowers. That day was the first time she’d ever met someone who had the forshaw.

  Even then she had known the psychic gift was special. Forshaw kept many Travellers with jingling pockets and full bellies, but few were truly gifted. Those who were blessed with the gift received reverence and respect amongst her gypsy clan, the Pavee. Every Traveller believed in the power of sight—it was as natural as the rain. Yet it was an ability that could tell of things as dark as night or bright as the sun, so most tended to avoid the power out of fear. One might not like what they came to know.

  “Nah, ma’am, ya got me all wrong. I’m just Pavee,” Helena said. “Nothing special.”

  “There you’re wrong. Being Pavee is special. There’s no one out here who can love ya as much as your family. No matter where ya be, we will always be a part of ya. And no matter the trouble ya find, we’ll always have your back. You’ll soon find out.”

  The woman was wrong. All Helena had to do was take one long look at her older sister to know that they didn’t always stick around. When things got hard, and her older sister had made choices that their culture didn’t believe in, the people who were supposed to have her back were the first ones to get to running. The only thing the crone had been right about is that they would always be Pavee. No matter where they went, they would be outsiders—never to be accepted amongst the country folk.

  The crone stared at her, her beady, bloodshot eyes never wavering. Helena looked away, but could still sense the woman’s gaze upon her.

  “What’re ya doin’ here? Did you come to meet someone?” Helena asked, in an effort to draw the woman’s attention from her crazed prophecies and the pain they caused.

  “I only wanted to come meet you for myself. I’ve been hearin’ things about your fam.”

  Nothing good was ever said about her family—not since Da’s bit in the clink. “Look, I don’t know what you heard, but my da’s an innocent man. He done what any other grand Traveller man woulda done. If you’re here to say something against him, you need to pick yourself up and get to movin’ on. I don’t want to hear it.”

  The crone’s laughter echoed down the quiet street. “I knew I was gonna like ya.” She collected the rest of the scattered marbles and stuffed them into the pocket of her dirt-smeared skirt. “There are good things comin’ in your future… though there’ll be plenty of madness.” The crone’s lips peeled back from her gnarled teeth.

  If Helena had to guess, the madness sat before her. She turned back to the bars.

  “Those bars are a mockery. Aren’t they?” The crone laughed. “Those country folk just can’t leave well enough alone.”

  The woman was right. Her da was a good man, a right man, a man who had gone the extra distance to protect his family.

  There was a thump from behind the doors, and Helena held her breath. The sound of grinding metal filled the street as the green doors opened, painfully slowly.

  Helena almost forgot about the strange crone at her feet. It had been so long since she’d last seen Da. Would he even recognize her? Her fingers found the edge of her black miniskirt and pulled it down her leg.

  The doors opened a fraction farther, and the back of a dark-haired man’s head came into view. “Absolutely. Thank you, Warden, for seeing me on such short notice. I appreciate your making things happen.” His voice echoed out into the street.

  From the other side of the metal came the rumble of a deeper, older voice that Helena assumed was the warden.

  “Thanks,” the dark-haired man said, and he turned with a quick backward wave.

  It wasn’t Da. Helena’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the man who had gotten her hopes up. His face was the warm caramel color of someone who spent his days in the sun, and his lips where dry and slightly chapped. They perfectly complimented his aquiline nose and deep-set, chocolate-colored eyes.

  A country man, a gorger. Helena could practically smell the world on him and see it in the way he moved, the confidence with which he stepped. The man was handsome for a country man, even though he wore a red Manchester United football jersey and a pair of wool trousers that looked far too warm for the tepid spring weather. He smiled down at her, his brown eyes sparkling with far too much delight.

  The doors clinked shut behind the man and a bolt slid into place. The sound echoed through Helena. Her da was still in there. Didn’t they understand that she and the family were waiting? They had been waiting so long.

  A gust of wind blew a few stray strands of hair into the corner of her mouth, sticking to her lip gloss. The jingle of the gorger’s keys echoed down the steps as she pulled the wild hair from the sticky trap of her lips. He seemed to mock her with his freedom as he sent one last look back at the closed doors.

  The man turned, and their eyes locked. His chapped lips twitched into a smile and the cleft in his chin disappeared; he reminded her a bit of the actor Hugh Grant, with his perfectly disheveled hair. She dropped her gaze to the ground out of fear that he would read something into the brief moment of eye contact they had shared. She could have nothing to do with a country man. No matter how much he looked like a movie star.

  The crone’s cackle broke into her thoughts. “Be careful now, you two little devils.” The woman took a hold of her buggy. “Things aren’t as they seem.” The trinkets within her buggy jingled as she toddled away.

  “Hey, lass.” The man’s voice was deep and rugged, matching the stubble-ridden cheeks of its owner. “Was that woman bothering you?” His footsteps clicked on the concrete steps as he made his way out of the prison’s gates.

  The overwhelming desire to escape filled her, but it wasn’t out of fear.

  “Don’t you talk?” He seemed to puff up like an overly prideful schoolboy.

  “I do,” she said, struggling to find words in the soupy jumble of emotions that boiled away within her. He couldn’t think she wanted anything to do with him, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to stop talking to the handsome stranger who stood before her. She pointed at his shirt to draw his attention away. “Don’t you think you should be wearing the Boys in Green’s colors?”

  He deflated slightly as he looked down at his shirt and smoothed the fabric. “Manchester United is, and will always be, God’s gift to the football fan.”

  She tutted. “You’re a disgrace of a Southerner.”

  “That’s not what the women normally say.” He gave her a sexy half grin.

  Helena held back a snicker. Did he really think that smile would get the gals running? He must have been scuttered. She leaned toward him just far enough that she could take a sniff, but there wasn’t a whisper of drink upon him; instead he smelled of the stale air of the prison. Beneath it was the scent of fresh cedar and sweet grass.

  “From the looks of you, you ain’t no Southerner neither. What are you, a gypo or something?”

  The hair on Helena's neck stood on end. When someone called her a gypo, especially a single man, nothing good would come of it. “Born and bred free like the River Shannon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to waiting for my da—he’s getting out of prison after he beat up some nasty gorger.”

  She gripped her purse tightly as she let the subtle warning sink into the handsome gorger’s over-confident thoughts. No matter how good-looking he was, no man was going to get away with calling her a gypo.

  “Hold on, don’t get your pretty little skirt all ruffled. I’m just trying to chat with you.” He stood up a bit straighter.

  “Shag off!”

  The crone laughed as she weaved away from them and down the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry, I just thought…” The man paused.

  “Thought what? That you could go talking to me like I’m some kind of street woman?” She was getting angrier by the second. “Well, I ain’t. And I ain’t no pikey neither.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about you. I thou
ght you were a gypsy.”

  She pulled her purse higher on her shoulder. “So what if I am?”

  The man shifted nervously. “I don’t mean anything. Really. Let’s start over. My name’s Graham Kelly.” He stuck out his hand, but Helena only stared at his fingers. If her da walked out and saw her talking to a non-gypsy man, they’d probably have to lock him right back up.

  “I’m Helena and I’m a Traveller—so why don’t ya move along.” She waved her hand down the sidewalk.

  There was a hurt expression on Graham’s face, but she was doing the right thing. She didn’t have any business with a man like him. The lairds needed to stay up in their castles while her kind stayed down in the streets.

  “You…” Graham started.

  There was the sound of the bolt sliding on the front doors of the prison.

  She turned away from him. “Shag off.”

  The doors opened and a few prisoners stumbled out. A man Helena didn’t recognize had what many would have considered a young face, unblemished and plump, but his eyes were sunken and he carried a look of terror on him, which made him seem much older. A steel-haired man with ghostly white, sun-starved skin and a gaunt frame walked out of the doors behind the age-tarnished young man. The ghostly man shielded his eyes from the bright light of freedom, turning his gaze toward the iron gates.

  Helena gasped. Suddenly, the world seemed off. For the old, frail man on the steps couldn’t be her da. It wasn’t possible.

  The man made his way down the steps and past the gates. His eyes, blue like the sky, twinkled as he saw her. It was him. It was Da.

  Da’s lips cracked as they formed a long-forgotten smile. “Come here, Helena, gra a mo gris.”

  He’d called her “love of my heart” since before she could remember, and his sweet words still made her smile.

  “Da. I’m so glad you’re okay.” She threw her arms around Da and buried her face in his chest as she had done when she was a child. “We’ve been missing ya somethin’ fierce.”